


Blown Glass and Oiled Leather

by ActuallyAMenace, LiathLining (ActuallyAMenace)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/F, Genderswap, Get the strap, No Lesbians Die, Pegging, They Are Gay And In Love, everything is the same but the bodies, glass cocks, its the gif that keeps on giving, no beta we die like meh, strap ons, they fuckin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAMenace/pseuds/ActuallyAMenace, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyAMenace/pseuds/LiathLining
Summary: Jaskier has been holding out on this gift for quite some time.  A quiet night after a fight seems like the perfect moment.  Or in which self care involves pegging
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was noticing a distinct lack of gender AU's for this ship. Work with me here....
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://liathlining.tumblr.com/)

Geralt sighs.

The water is sending steam to drift up around her in the candle lit room, fragrant oil pooling in iridescent shapes at the water’s surface.

They were stopped at an inn for the night, the weather too cold, and Geralts armor too filthy to warrant another night sleeping on the hard earth and a thin pressed bedroll. The Witcher sighs once more as each twitch of her body sends water lapping up the pale swell of her breasts, still sensitive after being freed from the linen binding she wore under her armor. The heat draws some of the ache from her bones, leaves her feeling lax and drowsy, though that may be influenced by Jaskier’s fragrant oils and the quiet plucking of lute strings.

She turns from her place at the edge of the tub, her head resting against a rolled towel for support. One eye cracks open to watch the small glimpse of domesticity as the bard abandons her instrument to bustle around their room for the evening, lighting lamps and arranging the bed to her liking. She’s stripped down to her own small clothes, and Geralt can smell the beginnings of her desire as she moves, tasting it on the back of her tongue like a feral beast after prey. Yet, her bard refused to join her in the large basin, the Witcher thinks sourly.

A metallic chime draws her gaze from where it had drifted without focus to the rafters and hawk gold eyes fall on the backside of Jaskier, bent over her pack, resting next to the Witcher’s against the wood framed foot of the bed.

“What are you hiding over there my little starling?”

Jaskier makes a high pitched noise as she’s startled from her crouched position, just managing to right her balance instead of toppling over. The look she levels over her shoulder is offended and conspiring, leaving Geralt to narrow her own eyes at the grating sing song tone that slips from rose petal lips.

It’s saved for when the bard has managed to collect a secret, something so rare that she can’t help the joy rising opposite of the Witcher’s irritation when she manages to hold onto it for more than a day.

“Perhaps if you get your hair clear of blood and the smell of iron, I’ll show you.”

The Witcher’s upper lip twitches, showing teeth, more habit than intentional menace. She didn’t choose the bloodbath that inevitably came from fighting hydra, in fact she would have liked to have avoided the whole processes of beheading and cauterizing necks in lieu of a blade through the heart. But it had been clear that the beast had been in a fight before, with over a dozen heads scenting the air with forked tongues and snapping at each other, too many necks for a hydra who had never seen the end of a blade.

“I know you have to have something up your sleeve if you aren’t even willing to help me with this, I can never get you to keep your hands out of my hair.”

After the first grant of permission, it had become a common occurrence to find small and nimble fingers buried in the thick silver locks, slipping free anything from an errant tangle to stray pieces of brush that had collected during travel. 

Jaskier’s next favorite thing in an inn was the access to a bath, coming in second only to the presence of a bed. She was never far from hovering over Geralt whenever she started on scrubbing away the grime of their nomadic lifestyle. The bard rises and puts her empty hands on her hips, smirking as Geralt's nostrils flare, scenting the wetness that had already started to pool at the apex of her thighs. It was so be a game then.

“Impossible, I’m not even wearing any. Besides, that water will be horrendous if it isn’t already.”

Geralt submerges her head beneath the water with a growl, letting the bard enjoy her shitty puns as she scrapes blood from her scalp, making the most of her enhanced lung capacity.

By the time she surfaces the water is murky at her waist, and she uses the last bucket full from the hearth to rinse away any lingering debris. Jaskier is there when she opens her eyes again, moving to help dry scarred skin as calloused hands wring water from silver hair over the tub.

“Come sit, let me braid this. If you’re good I’ll give your gift.”

The taller of the pair visibly perks at that, enticed to the point of forgoing the tunic she normally sleeps in. She settles onto the bed with a sigh, the hay within the mattress crackling as her bard finds her customary place at her back. The room is small enough that the fire in the hearth beats the winter chill back without leaving it stagnant and still, the popping of logs adds something special to the setting.

The scent of now familiar oils surrounds her as nimble fingers press into her hair, pulling any kinks or tangles free that lingered after the bath. Geralt loses herself to the sensation for a time until the familiar tug of the comb sings at her scalp. It makes the fine hair at the nape of her neck stand on end, and she pushes into the sensation.

It was made by her own hands, not long after she realized she would be dealing with the bards presence for longer than expected. The comb was made of carved bone, recycled from the skeletal remains of some great beast the Witcher had found in a cave. The bone, solid and strong, carved and oiled smooth. Geralt had wrapped it in a simple cloth when she had given it to the other woman with a simple:

_“Now, you no longer have room for complaints about the blood under your nails when you decide to involve yourself in my bathing.”_

The teeth had worn over time, but slowly, and the careful usage would most likely provide them a few more years before a replacement would be needed.

She hums in pleasure as Jaskier uses deft fingers to form a solid weight from her hair, braiding it into a shape she can never picture correctly without a looking glass.

A kiss falls below her ear as the ritual is complete and Geralt sighs, turning her head to capture rich lips with her own. She can feel the other woman’s breasts against her back, nipples pebbling in the cool room without the barrier of her chest wrap. All too soon they are disconnected, and a gravel noise leaves Geralt’s throat, growing louder when a kiss is pressed to her temple.

“Patience, do you know how many songs I had to sing about you to get this? Close your eyes.”

There’s a silent war between gazes of blue and gold before the Witcher finally sighs, closing her eyes. Old wood creaks below her feet, and there’s that same metallic chime as she retrieves the gift from Its hiding place in her pack. There’s a tremor to Jaskier’s voice as she speaks.

“Hands out please.”

That same metallic note is dulled this time, like a bell stopped by someone’s hand, but there’s a weight added to it, accompanied by the feeling of butter soft leather and glass landing in her hands

“You can look.”

She blinks at the bard first before looking down, eyes widening as a primal rush of desire seems to light up each nerve in her body. They had come across these in the last kingdom they had visited, in a small shop within the ostentatious bath house slash brothel they had passed the time in those few hours when Jaskier wasn’t busy in court. The richly draped walls had been fixed with numerous shelves, displaying erotically carved pieces of materials such as glass or lacquered wood, as well as shining crystal and polished stone.

The piece in her hand was glass as clear as crystal, cool to the touch with a more than modest length, not to mention its sizable girth that showed of swirls of teal and charcoal hues within the center. It was larger than most of the whores they had visited at brothels had owned. Divided by a raised lip in the middle, it’s got more length on one side than the other, but she’s seen the use of them enough that it makes sense.

The harness with it was a stark black, the fastenings in tones of pewter that matched her Witcher armor. She swallows thickly around love and lust before she looks to where Jaskier has moved before her, bottom lip flushed pulled back to be clamped between her teeth.

“I almost had to fight the person before me for that one. Luckily Someone owed me a favor. Do you like it?”

Geralt answers by standing swiftly to kiss the other woman, gently abandoning the gift to onto the mattress to take hold her face in her hands. There’s a possessive surge to crowd against her, and she has to force herself away, nipping just under a fair skinned jaw. There’s a pleased noise emanating from her chest and too sharp teeth nip at the bard’s earlobe.

“Help me put it on?”

Jaskier laughs, a melodic noise of joy as she presses Geralt back to the bed, climbing atop her as soon as she’s seated.

“Of course. But first, I have to inspect how thorough you were with your bath.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's wrap this up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for all the response! Totally open to suggestions or prompts if anyone is interested!
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://liathlining.tumblr.com/)

Jaskier fell in love with Geralt’s breasts the moment she first touched them, the soft shape of them stark in comparison to the hard muscle of her body. They were probably the only source of fat on her form, fitting perfectly into her palms like a pair of ripe exotic fruit. She takes her time worshiping them, giving them the attention like that of a sculptor to his marble. 

The Witcher sighs above her as she sucks a pert nipple into her mouth, calloused fingers carding through already thoroughly tousled hair the hue of rain darkened earth.

“Jas- Your mouth.” Her statement is broken by a sigh. “This is certainly your calling in place of your songs.” 

Geralt gives a rough chuckle at the blow that lands on her thigh, the noise trailing into a hiss as her other nipple is given a sharp pinch in true retaliation. 

The bard rests her chin upon her lover’s sternum, pupils blown wide with want. 

“Sounds like someone is after half a job. I only give this kind of service to my most adoring fans.”

An eye roll is her only reply before the hand in her hair forces her mouth upon the abandoned breast, intent clear. 

“I find it hard to sing the praises of your songs, when the true music is that which you sing in our bed.”

A whimper, and Jaskier is surging up and out of the grip to kiss Geralt, heart squeezing in her chest.

“I’m having that tattooed upon my skin the next city we come to, so when you deny those words, I still have them.”

Geralt rolls them with a growl, pulling away to retrieve her new present from the end of the bed. She can feel the shifting air of the room blow over the dampness of her sex when she spreads her legs, Jaskier helping her find the right placement of body in between delivering kisses to her calves and thighs. 

When the Witcher rises, the butter smooth leather slides up her thighs, leaving goosebumps in the wake of the straps until the width of the muscle stops them. Jaskier teases her with oiled fingers after smearing it over the glass cock, stroking into her with curling touches before pressing the second head of the glass cock into Into her cunt, the slight bulb of it held fast by her inner muscles. It’s a stretch, but this end is shorter, perhaps allowing for more movement when she rocks her hips. She’ll find out.

The bard rises to her knees as well and they tighten the band at her waist with gentle fingers, getting distracted with kisses and pert nipples. The glass cock presses between them, and Geralt cant resist the noise leaving her lips as it shifts the portion inside of her cunt, drawing it against smooth walls and that spot against the front of her sex. She takes her place at the head of the bed, draped upon pillows, hoping it will be easier if Jaskier takes this at her own pace. 

It’s still a strange sight when the bard perches atop her thighs, legs spread so Geralt can just barely see the wet of her cunt through the clear portions of the glass cock. She can feel her move closer, not just by skin, but the small spots of wetness that appear across her body until she’s up against the object, watching the Witcher with a look of devious intent as she grinds against it. The action, as simple as it is, pushes the glass lip to shift over her clit, sliding that central point that makes her drive her hips into it. 

Jaskier wets her lips above her, pupils blown wide with just a hint of blue still showing. 

This will be fun. 

She only stays on her back long enough for Jaskier to settle herself comfortably on her cock, little hitches of breaths and gasps swallowed by Geralt’s mouth as she sinks lower and lower, each rock of her hips making the opposite end shift to reach deeper within the Witchers body. It takes little effort to lift their bodies until her back is against the headboard, Jaskier panting with approval as shes manhandled. 

They add more oil as she lifts off of the shaft, a pleased noise at the shape of the flared head before the next thrust down glides even easier. The bard is wet and wanting, so she offers her fingers to Geralt. She watches with flushed cheeks and rapt attention as the Witcher takes them into her mouth, nipping gently at the sensitive tips of her fingers, a dexterous tongue licking away the unique flavor of woman. These fingers were the ones she had spread herself with, used to hold her body open to receive the Witcher’s cock. It strikes something possessive in her and she doubles in to lick every drop from her. 

Her spit is used to lessen the touch against her own clit as Jaskier works her thighs, head thrown back with choked off noises as Geralt plants her feet and grasps the hips of the woman above her, driving up into that body, to watch the bard come apart with pleasure as she forces the glass cock deeper into her own cunt.

It’s all too soon when Jackier pushes herself harder against her lover’s body, once, twice, before she stills with a silent sob, fingers and sharp nails digging into the Witcher’s scarred thighs as she braces herself.

Geralt rolls them through Jaskier’s aftershocks with little effort, panting into kisses as she rocks into her, so close to her own precipice. She growls as the motion of her thrusts send fine droplets of sweat from her forehead to the Bard’s bared throat. They are both gritty with exertion, their hips and thighs covered in some mixture of oil and their own slick. Geralt can only hold off for so long before she is lifting Jaskier’s hips in her hands and fucking deeper into her with another thrust.

Her hair is in her face, long tendrils escaping the braid at her back to brush over Jaskier’s nipples, pebbled and flushed pink. Just a stretch and she has one in her mouth, paying due attention to both before returning to the task at hand, rhythm finding its place as a particular thrust sends the bard’s ample chest into movement, the rich weight of full breasts shifting nearly to her chin with each firm thrust. 

Jaskier comes once more before the Witcher finds her own release, the glass cock nearly slipping from the clench of her cunt as slick gushes from her sex. She pulls out slowly and removes the strap after she catches her breath. It’s with a noise of want that the glass cock is set aside with the leather to clean later. 

Geralt drapes between her lovers spread legs and sets to cleaning her up with first the gentle brush of her flattened tongue on her thighs, before she moves upwards to her center, burying her face between the folds of her cunt.

The braid at the back of her head is a lost cause at this point, so she angles closer, body language showing the eagerness for the hands to bury themselves in her pale hair with a slight push. She noses at her clit with irregular brushes of touch, tongue in search of all she can collect of her lovers slick. The Witcher works Jaskier through another orgasm, most likely losing a few strands of hair based on the tugging. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her face is damp when she rises, and Geralt nuzzles against the soft middle of her bard, a sigh of contentment as she settles in comfortably. A stretch of her leg and she’s pulling the blankets and furs over their tangles bodies, knowing from practice that Jaskier will manhandle her as she wishes if she gets too cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Toss me a comment?
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://liathlining.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone calls Jaskier "Little Lark" but there are so many other song birds that deserve a try too!
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://liathlining.tumblr.com/)


End file.
